Featured Founding Citizen: Thomas Paine March 2026 – Celebrating America’s 250th Birthday

Mr. Paine, thank you for joining us. What motivated you to risk everything for independence?

Please, just Paine. I was never one for formality – spent most of my life making enemies of people who cared too much about titles.

What motivated me? Fury. Pure, clarifying rage at injustice.

I arrived in Philadelphia from England in 1774 with nothing – no money, no prospects, barely alive after the ocean crossing. Benjamin Franklin gave me letters of introduction, but I was still just a failed corset-maker and tax collector who’d made a mess of every venture I’d tried.

Portrait of Thomas Paine seated at rustic wooden table holding a copy of Common Sense pamphlet, with quill pen, inkwell, lantern, and mug of ale, wearing 18th century brown coat and white cravat against countryside backdrop at dusk

Then, I watched how Britain treated the colonies. Not as partners, not even as subjects with rights – as livestock to be milked for revenue. And I saw colonists accepting it, telling themselves that reconciliation was possible and that, somehow, King George would see reason.

I’d lived under a monarchy my entire life. I knew what it was: inherited power protected by mysticism and force. The divine right of kings is humanity’s oldest con game, and I couldn’t stomach watching Americans fall for it.

So, I wrote “Common Sense.” Forty-six pages that said what everyone was thinking but nobody dared speak: monarchy is absurd, independence is inevitable, and we don’t need their permission to be free.

What was your greatest fear during the Revolution?

That we’d lose our nerve halfway through.

Revolution is easy when you’re angry. It’s maintaining that conviction when you’re cold, hungry, watching friends die, and the cause looks hopeless – that’s the test. I saw it in December 1776, after we’d been routed from New York. The Continental Army was disintegrating, enlistments were expiring, and Washington’s force was down to a few thousand frozen, demoralized men.

That’s when I wrote “The American Crisis” by campfire light: “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”

My fear was that we’d prove ourselves summer soldiers – bold in rhetoric, cowardly in execution. That we’d quit before we’d properly started.

My other fear? That we’d win independence but immediately recreate the same power structures we’d fought against. New oppressors wearing American uniforms instead of British red.

That fear was also well-founded, I’m afraid.

What compromises did you make that still trouble you?

I compromised my silence on slavery, and I’ll answer for that when my time comes.

I knew it was monstrous. I wrote against it – “African Slavery in America,” 1775, one of my first pieces in Philadelphia. I called slavery a “national crime” and demanded immediate abolition. But when it came time to unify the colonies, when the moment required coalition rather than division, I muted my voice.

I told myself the priority was independence, that we’d address slavery once we were free from Britain. But that’s the coward’s arithmetic – postponing justice because the moment is inconvenient.

The Southern colonies wouldn’t have joined the revolution if abolition had been a condition. So, we built our new nation on a foundation of human bondage, and I helped by not making more noise.

I also compromised my effectiveness by being too blunt, too combative. I made enemies unnecessarily – not because I was wrong, but because I couldn’t resist demolishing people who deserved to be merely corrected. My pen was a cudgel when it should have been a scalpel.

What would surprise us most about daily life in your era?

How many people couldn’t read?

You, modern Americans, with your universal literacy, take for granted what an achievement that is. In my time, perhaps half the population could read basic text; far fewer could read complex arguments. Writing “Common Sense” in plain language rather than elevated prose wasn’t a style – it was a necessity. I was trying to reach tavern keepers and blacksmiths, not just educated gentlemen.

Also, how expensive the information was. A newspaper cost real money, and books were luxuries. Ideas spread slowly, through conversation and public readings. When “Common Sense” sold 100,000 copies in a few months – in a colonial population of 2.5 million – that was like publishing a book today that everyone in America reads within a season. It couldn’t happen without people sharing copies, reading aloud in taverns, and discussing it endlessly.

And the violence. Public executions were entertainment. Tavern brawls were common. Political disagreements ended in duels. We were a rougher, cruder people than your sanitized histories suggest.

If you could witness one moment 250 years in the future – 2026 – what would you want to see?

I’d want to see whether you still have a free press that speaks truth to power without fear.

That’s the whole game, really. Every other freedom depends on it. If journalists can investigate government corruption, expose lies, challenge authority without being imprisoned or killed – then the republic survives. If not, it’s just aristocracy with better marketing.

I’d also like to know whether you’ve abolished monarchy everywhere, or whether humanity still tolerates inherited power. The idea that someone’s bloodline qualifies them to rule should be as outdated as human sacrifice, but humans cling to their superstitions.

And education – did you build a system where every child, regardless of birth or wealth, can learn to think critically? Or do you still reserve education for the privileged while keeping the masses ignorant enough to be governed?

Tell me those things, and I’ll know whether the revolution succeeded or merely changed costumes.

You’re told that Oro Valley, Arizona – a desert settlement you never knew existed – now has a library open to all, free of charge, with more than 100,000 books, internet access for information, and programs for children and adults. Your reaction?

A public library? Free? In a desert?

First question: Who pays for it? Because nothing’s truly free – someone funds it. Taxes, I assume? So, the community collectively decided that universal access to knowledge was worth their money? That’s extraordinary. That’s what I was arguing for in “Rights of Man” – that government’s purpose is serving the common welfare, not enriching the privileged.

Second: Internet access? You’ll have to explain that. Is it like printing presses, but faster? Can anyone publish? Can anyone access published material instantly?

[Told yes, essentially anyone can publish anything and access nearly all human knowledge instantly]

Good God. That’s either humanity’s salvation or its doom, possibly both. The printing press democratized information, and look what happened – revolutions across two continents. But if anyone can publish anything, how do you separate truth from lies? Who verifies facts?

[Told: It’s complicated, there’s no central verification]

Then you’ve created the perfect system for both enlightenment and manipulation. Tyrants have always known that controlling information controls populations. If information is free but truth is indistinguishable from lies, you haven’t liberated people – you’ve drowned them.

But about this library in Oro Valley – how did people settle in the desert? Where’s the water? And who are these people who decided that community access to knowledge was worth funding? Are they farmers? Merchants? What’s their economy?

What advice would you give Americans celebrating the 250th birthday?

First: Question everything, including this advice. The moment you stop examining your assumptions, you’re ripe for tyranny. Authority wants obedience, not inquiry. Resist that.

Second: Defend free speech absolutely. Not just speech you agree with – especially speech you find offensive. The marketplace of ideas only works if bad ideas can be spoken and then demolished by better arguments. Censorship, even with good intentions, is how power protects itself from challenge.

Third: Remember that rights require defense. They’re not granted by governments or guaranteed by documents – they exist because people fight for them, generation after generation. Your Constitution is paper. Your rights are whatever you’re willing to protect.

Fourth: Avoid foreign entanglements and wars of conquest. I wrote in “Rights of Man” that the European system of endless warfare bankrupts nations and murders the common people for aristocratic ambitions. Don’t repeat their mistakes. Defend yourselves, yes. But don’t become an empire.

Fifth: Tax the rich. I’m serious. In “Agrarian Justice,” I proposed that every person reaching age 21 receive a basic stake paid for by taxing inherited wealth. Poverty isn’t natural – it’s created by systems that concentrate resources in a few hands while the majority struggle. Fix the systems.

Sixth: Be uncomfortable. Comfort is the death of progress. If you’re not regularly examining whether your society is just, whether your leaders serve you or themselves, whether your systems work for everyone or just the privileged, then you’re not citizens, you’re subjects who’ve forgotten the difference.

Finally: Write. Think clearly enough to put thoughts on paper. Speak plainly enough that anyone can understand. Arguments that can’t survive plain language aren’t worth making.

And one more thing: Never, ever trust anyone who claims divine authority for their power. God doesn’t endorse governments – people do. Hold them accountable.

Thomas Paine died June 8, 1809, in New York City at age 72, largely forgotten and impoverished. His funeral was attended by six people. The man whose words ignited revolutions in America and France died believing he’d failed – yet “Common Sense” and “The American Crisis” remain among the most influential political writings in history. He’s buried in New Rochelle, New York, though his bones were later stolen and lost. Perhaps that’s fitting: Paine was never comfortable being confined by borders, conventions, or even a grave.